


each day you come closer

by verity



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Between Seasons/Series, Cooking, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Summer
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-10
Updated: 2013-06-10
Packaged: 2017-12-14 12:35:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,758
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/836930
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/verity/pseuds/verity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"You're a <i>fancy</i> cook," Stiles says, like it's some deep revelation. "You—I bet you own <i>The Joy of Cooking</i>. I bet you—"</p><p>"I own <i>The Joy of Cooking</i>," Derek says.</p>
            </blockquote>





	each day you come closer

**Author's Note:**

  * For [whiskey_in_tea](https://archiveofourown.org/users/whiskey_in_tea/gifts).



> for Scout's [summer fic thing](http://scoutsxhonor.tumblr.com/tagged/summer-and-scout). greatest thanks to billtheradish & ashe. <3
> 
> content note: laura feels

On the last Friday of summer break, Derek comes downstairs to find Stiles with his head stuck in the freezer, cheek pressed against a box of rocket pops. "It's really hot, okay," Stiles says. "Don't judge."

—

The loft was advertised as _fully renovated_ , but that turned out to mean _new kitchen with granite counters, jacuzzi in master bath, crumbling brick, sorry about the hole in the wall_. Derek sleeps in the open downstairs, where the light wakes him every morning, spilling through the leaded windows. He gets up and starts a pot of coffee at dawn, checks the news on his phone. It's usually an hour before Isaac shows up, sweaty from his morning run, and another two before Peter waltzes in with bagels. Derek doesn't know where Peter's staying right now, but he'd really like to find out where he's getting the bagels.

They search the woods, canvas nearby towns. Just because their eyes can compensate for the dark doesn't mean they have the advantage at night. Peter's best with motel clerks, Derek with gas station attendants, Isaac with baristas. One time it takes two days for the phone number sharpied on Isaac's palm to wear off his skin. There's no whisper of alpha pack, no sign of Boyd or Erica. They've vanished without a trace.

At night, Derek comes home and makes dinner. Usually he just microwaves something frozen, but sometimes he makes pasta on the six-burner gas stove, heating up sauce from a jar instead of seeding and roasting the tomatoes the way Laura always made him do it. He buys an immersion blender, but it stays unused in its box under the counter for a month before Stiles discovers it.

"Is this a robot arm?" Stiles says. He squints at the matte-finish stainless steel. "Wait, did you buy this to match your refrigerator?"

Derek carefully does not look at the stainless steel Viking monstrosity behind Stiles. The only things inside are Marie Callender pot pies, ice cream, and ketchup. "No," he says, even though the white plastic one was fifty dollars cheaper. "I like to make soup."

"I don't believe that," Stiles says.

—

Stiles started coming over because he was bored. Derek doesn't ask Stiles about what he does during the day; Stiles smells like books and chips and sweat, same as always. After a few tense, stonewalled attempts at interrogation, Stiles starts to return the favor. Instead, he questions Derek about the contents of his loft, the thread count of his sheets, why Derek doesn't have cable, why Derek doesn't have _internet_ , why Derek's bed is in the middle of the living room.

"It's not a living room," Derek says, gesturing at the broad expanse of the downstairs. "It's—open space. Open plan."

"Open plan still has _walls_ ," Stiles says.

"You sound really confident of that," Derek says. He takes a bite of his apple, chews slowly, swallows, while Stiles sticks out his tongue, the rocket pop red-and-blue a ruddy plum stain.

—

Sometimes Stiles brings his laptop over, stretches out on the couch and watches TV shows with the volume low while Derek reads on the bed. He's in the middle of Neal Stephenson's _Baroque Cycle_ , which is complex and strange enough to draw him out of his head most of the time. Last summer, he read through all of China Mieville's back catalogue like this, sprawled on the cool floor of the Brooklyn apartment he shared with Laura while she studied for the MCAT and rubbed his stomach with her foot. He's still paying rent on that apartment; their lease doesn't run out until the end of August.

He keeps getting lost in the steady rhythm of Stiles's heartbeat, expecting it to be Laura's, glancing over each time and remembering that it's not.

—

"Come on," Stiles says, one night. "You have to get bored, too, cooped up in here all the time. Let's go out."

Derek isn't the one who reeks of recycled air and Cheetos, spends all day inside, but he lets it pass. "Where do you want to go?"

"Uh." Stiles glances at his watch. "I don't know."

It's just past ten; Derek usually kicks Stiles out around now, so he can take a shower and pretend he'll sleep. "I'll drive," he says.

The only things open this late on a Tuesday night are bars, fast food, and Wal-Mart. Laura would kill him for thinking about setting foot in a Wal-Mart (or Chik-Fil-A, or—she had a list), but she's dead and Derek isn't yet. So he wanders the long aisles under too-bright lights, pausing to look at bath towels and economy-sized bags of snack-sized Kit-Kats, ends up in the wash of pink at one end of the toy section.

"Monster High?" Stiles says. His hands are full of Snickers bars and dryer sheets.

"Laura collects them," Derek says. "She liked Clawdeen. Thought it was funny."

They go through the drive-through at In 'N Out after, eat their spoils half in the car, half in the parking lot. Derek doesn't stare at Stiles's hands as he crams fries into his mouth, not at all.

—

Soup is usually a fall dish for Derek. He'd make squash, carrot, broccoli, chicken noodle if Laura was feeling low. Laura was the baker in the family, learned at Grandfather Hale's knee, but she never touched a stove after the fire. They ate a lot of hotpot ramen before the insurance money came through and Derek started watching the Food Network all the time.

"You know, I knew intellectually that tomato soup came from tomatoes," Stiles says, scooping away the seeds, "but I didn't—this is a lot of work, man. And these are freaky tomatoes."

Derek catches a plump yellow one before it can roll off the counter. "They're heirlooms," he says. "You can only get them in season."

"I didn't know tomatoes had a season," Stiles says.

"Shut up, you heretic," Derek says, stirring the garlic he's browning in the bottom of the pot.

He cheats and eats a few pieces of tomato with salt and pepper, but lets the rest cook down before he adds the cream and starts blending. Tomato soup is easy for soup; no werewolf strength required, unlike all the times Derek's had to hack apart particularly stubborn squash for roasting. Stiles hovers over the soup, like watching it will make it cook faster, until Derek makes him butter the bread for grilled cheese sandwiches.

"You're a _fancy_ cook," Stiles says, like it's some deep revelation. "You—I bet you own _The Joy of Cooking_. I bet you—"

"I own _The Joy of Cooking_ ," Derek says.

They eat off ceramic plates that are still glossy and unscratched, drinking soup out of mugs because Derek forgot to buy bowls. Who forgets to buy bowls? The mugs match the plates, because one motley collection of school and NPR and vacation souvenir mugs was destroyed in the fire and the other is still in New York.

"You're staring at your soup," Stiles says, frowning. He slurps some obscenely from his spoon.

—

Derek goes away for a weekend to clean out the Brooklyn apartment, puts most of it in storage. He brings back clothes, some of Laura's record collection, limits himself to one checked bag on the plane. He's not ready to bridge the distance between New York and Beacon Hills; he doesn't even call Casey, although he should, he should give her Laura's dolls—something.

"The Decemberists," Stiles says thoughtfully, flipping through the LPs. Derek hasn't bothered to unpack yet, so the suitcase is open, up against the wall, and Stiles is—Stiles. "I wouldn't have taken you for an indie rock guy."

"You don't know what I like," Derek says.

Stiles rolls his eyes. "Yes, I do," he says, then ticks off on his long, perfect, devastating fingers: "Tomatoes. Books. Fast cars. Inexplicably tight pants. Matching appliances. I don't know what that _means_ , dude, but—"

"You—" Derek says. "I mean—I don't know what you like."

Stiles opens his mouth, shuts it again, looking at Derek with wide eyes, his heartbeat steady, familiar percussion. He's just a kid—he's sixteen, barely older than Isaac, who ran with Derek in the forest this morning, than Boyd and Erica, lost to them. Derek's already fucking this up like he fucks everything up. He's in too deep, all wrapped up in the way Stiles gets under his skin, pushing into his life, rummaging around inside, tugging Derek out of his head, grounding him.

"I know all the words to every Weird Al song in existence," Stiles says. "Like, I could rap 'White and Nerdy' for you right now. My favorite Jarritos flavor is guava. I'm really into harassing werewolves and running for my life."

"That was a lie," Derek says, crouching down next to Stiles, next to his suitcase overflowing with jeans and t-shirts and records.

"Not the werewolves part," Stiles says.

Underneath _The Hazards of Love_ , both Jenny Lewis albums, and the soundtrack to _Once_ , there's a beat-up copy of _Cosmic Thing_ that Derek tugs out. "Most of these are Laura's," he says. "She really liked having, just—stuff? Dolls and clothes and records, our whole apartment is—was—I don't need that much, don't—but Laura used to get me records, though, sometimes, if they were in the dollar bin or something."

"That was nice of her," Stiles ventures.

"It pissed me off," Derek says, and laughs, and then he's not laughing anymore.

—

Stiles buys a record player from the thrift store and listens through the whole stack of LPs over the course of a week. Derek finishes the _Baroque Cycle_ and starts reading _The Black Opera_ , but he keeps getting distracted by Stiles, turning the pages on his summer reading assignment, sitting on Derek's couch, just—breathing. His hair is growing out and he's ditched the overshirts because of the heat, arms pale and mole-dusted. Derek doesn't confuse his heartbeat with Laura's anymore. His apartment smells like both of them now, with Laura's records and the sweater that got mixed in with Derek's by mistake, and Stiles's touch everywhere, his head resting on the arm of Derek's couch, sweat soaked into the upholstery. Derek doesn't have an air conditioner.

One time Derek goes upstairs to change into a clean shirt and comes down to find Stiles with his head in the freezer, cheek pressed against a box of rocket pops. "It's really hot, okay," Stiles says. "Don't judge."

Derek puts his hand on the back of Stiles's neck and says, "I'm not."

**Author's Note:**

> I'm [ladyofthelog](http://ladyofthelog.tumblr.com) on tumblr, and you don't want to know how much money I've spent on heirloom tomatoes.


End file.
